Tempt Me, Taste Me, Touch Me
Page 53
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He began to move inside her, movements so small that she wondered if she was imagining them in her pleasure. The slight pressure of his c**k pushing into her, of it flexing inside her, of him coming beneath her, was enough to intensify her orgasm to the point of delirium. She couldn't have told him what her name was, or what she did for a living, or where she was.
All she knew was that he was inside her and she felt better than she'd ever thought to feel her whole life. His hands never left her br**sts. When she could finally open her eyes, when she had relearned to breathe and could remember what her name was and where she was, she looked up into his smiling face. Vanessa knew she'd remember that smile forever.
FIVE
SAM COULDN'T HELP HIS GRIN. Being with Vanessa was better than anything he could have ever imagined. But--and here was the big question that wiped the smile right off his face, even though she was naked and slick on his lap-was the most incredible sexual experience of his life worth losing his muse? His mother had raised him to be a gentleman, and the gentlemanly thing to do was to tell Vanessa how beautiful she was, how special she was to him, how this was more than a weekend fling. She shifted on his lap and he smiled again. Good thing Vanessa would have known he was spouting utter bullshit, because he wasn't going to say any of that.
"First we'll eat," he said as he lifted her light weight off him and stood up, not the least bit bothered by his own nudity, but powerfully aware of hers. As always. ''And then you'll pose for me again." He wanted to skip right past food. Like most artists he was happy to forgo eating, sleeping, anything when the mood struck. But he couldn't exactly starve her, could he?
"No' she said as though reading his mind. "You'll paint. I'll go get food'
If he wasn't careful, he could really fall hard for a woman like her. As she put her dress and panties back on, he didn't pick up any weird vibes. He didn't get the sense that she was disappointed by his lack of flowery post -sex compliments. Thank God. He'd never been good at that stuff.
She headed out through his vines without a word of good-bye, without checking to see what he wanted to eat, but he wasn't worried. She'd come back with something absolutely perfect for his palate. And he was confident that she wouldn't bolt on him. After what they'd shared, he had a feeling she was biding her time until round two.
But all of those thoughts were just his way of stalling. Of trying to forget that letting his penis overtake his brain might have ruined everything. Telling himself not to be a pu**y, he zipped up his jeans and threw on his T-shirt. Barefoot, he headed back over to his paint-splattered easel. He moved the finished painting aside and put up a blank, white canvas.
For a moment, all he saw was white. Nothing else. No vision. No image. Nothing.
His heart raced and he nearly stumbled back into the red wall of the barn. It had already happened. He'd let himself touch her and he'd lost it.
Fear quickly turned to anger. Was this what the rest of his life was going to be? Finding a woman he desired, a woman who made his fingers itch to paint her, to stroke her, but never being able to do a damn thing about it?
Not a chance.
He picked up a paintbrush and began to fill the canvas with color. It was furious motion, one without direction. Vanessa's smell was on his hands, on his skin, and he couldn't help but be
back on the tarp, with her riding him, her br**sts in his hands, her mouth under his. His hands moved faster, and without conscious thought or intention the painting took shape before him. It was astounding. Reds and oranges and yellows exploded on the canvas. In the middle of it all were Vanessa's eyes, her curves, her strength, and her passion. He hardly breathed, didn't dare to stop as he created what he already knew would be his best work.
This painting was what he had worked for thirty-six years to achieve. His anger, his frustration, his love, and his lust definitely his lust for Vanessa were here for the rest of the world to finally see.
The sun must have moved in the sky, he must have been thirsty, or hungry, but he didn't notice any of that. He moved the canvas to the ground and picked up another. He could see so much now, so much was clear to him.
It was as if being with Vanessa had helped him tap into the deeper recesses of his creative subconscious, allowing him to tap into talent he'd never known he possessed.
Finally, he heard something behind him and remembered to take a breath. Vanessa stared at him, a bag of takeout forgotten in her hands.
"Where'd this come from?" she asked, and it was enough for him to know that he'd been right. He turned away from his canvas, relief washing through him as he knew in his gut that his muse wasn't going anywhere, that it was there to stay this time.
He almost said "you:' but he hated the way it sounded in his head, so he didn't answer her. He just said, "Let's eat:' and she nodded, understanding that there were no words for it beyond a too-simple "you:'
VANESSA HAD BEEN GLAD to head out on her own to pick up lunch. Sex was just sex. That's what she'd always believed. More than that, it was what she'd always known. But somewhere along the way, as Sam had turned her body inside out with his hands, with his mouth, with his cock, she'd lost hold of her certainty. Because sex had never been so good. So powerful. So all consuming. It had only taken ten seconds for her to figure out that Sam Marshall was not only the best lover she'd ever had but also the one man who had a chance of breaking through her "no love" rule.
Life had taught her that men didn't stick around once their desire was slaked. Her father had been the best teacher around. And her mother had been his victim. As soon as she'd turned eighteen, Vanessa had gotten the hell out of that house, with all its lies and betrayals. She'd lived on her terms at Berkeley. No lies. No cheating. Because there was no love to lie about. And no one to deceive. Just men that she slept with on a casual basis.
The intensity of being with Sam, and the way it had ricocheted out from her groin all the way up her chest to her heart, had been enough to make her consider leaving for sandwiches and not coming back. But she wasn't a coward. And, like she'd told him, she didn't run from a challenge. Plus, she wasn't leaving without the painting in the gallery window.
By the time she returned with a bottle of cool, crisp Chardonnay, chicken curry salad, artisan goat cheese, and freshly baked sourdough bread, she had convinced herself that modeling for Sam, that sleeping with Sam, was nothing more than a test of her will. One that she was certain she'd pass with flying colors. Besides, even if she did something stupid like trying to envision a future with Sam, the fact was that things between them would never work in a million years.
All she knew was that he was inside her and she felt better than she'd ever thought to feel her whole life. His hands never left her br**sts. When she could finally open her eyes, when she had relearned to breathe and could remember what her name was and where she was, she looked up into his smiling face. Vanessa knew she'd remember that smile forever.
FIVE
SAM COULDN'T HELP HIS GRIN. Being with Vanessa was better than anything he could have ever imagined. But--and here was the big question that wiped the smile right off his face, even though she was naked and slick on his lap-was the most incredible sexual experience of his life worth losing his muse? His mother had raised him to be a gentleman, and the gentlemanly thing to do was to tell Vanessa how beautiful she was, how special she was to him, how this was more than a weekend fling. She shifted on his lap and he smiled again. Good thing Vanessa would have known he was spouting utter bullshit, because he wasn't going to say any of that.
"First we'll eat," he said as he lifted her light weight off him and stood up, not the least bit bothered by his own nudity, but powerfully aware of hers. As always. ''And then you'll pose for me again." He wanted to skip right past food. Like most artists he was happy to forgo eating, sleeping, anything when the mood struck. But he couldn't exactly starve her, could he?
"No' she said as though reading his mind. "You'll paint. I'll go get food'
If he wasn't careful, he could really fall hard for a woman like her. As she put her dress and panties back on, he didn't pick up any weird vibes. He didn't get the sense that she was disappointed by his lack of flowery post -sex compliments. Thank God. He'd never been good at that stuff.
She headed out through his vines without a word of good-bye, without checking to see what he wanted to eat, but he wasn't worried. She'd come back with something absolutely perfect for his palate. And he was confident that she wouldn't bolt on him. After what they'd shared, he had a feeling she was biding her time until round two.
But all of those thoughts were just his way of stalling. Of trying to forget that letting his penis overtake his brain might have ruined everything. Telling himself not to be a pu**y, he zipped up his jeans and threw on his T-shirt. Barefoot, he headed back over to his paint-splattered easel. He moved the finished painting aside and put up a blank, white canvas.
For a moment, all he saw was white. Nothing else. No vision. No image. Nothing.
His heart raced and he nearly stumbled back into the red wall of the barn. It had already happened. He'd let himself touch her and he'd lost it.
Fear quickly turned to anger. Was this what the rest of his life was going to be? Finding a woman he desired, a woman who made his fingers itch to paint her, to stroke her, but never being able to do a damn thing about it?
Not a chance.
He picked up a paintbrush and began to fill the canvas with color. It was furious motion, one without direction. Vanessa's smell was on his hands, on his skin, and he couldn't help but be
back on the tarp, with her riding him, her br**sts in his hands, her mouth under his. His hands moved faster, and without conscious thought or intention the painting took shape before him. It was astounding. Reds and oranges and yellows exploded on the canvas. In the middle of it all were Vanessa's eyes, her curves, her strength, and her passion. He hardly breathed, didn't dare to stop as he created what he already knew would be his best work.
This painting was what he had worked for thirty-six years to achieve. His anger, his frustration, his love, and his lust definitely his lust for Vanessa were here for the rest of the world to finally see.
The sun must have moved in the sky, he must have been thirsty, or hungry, but he didn't notice any of that. He moved the canvas to the ground and picked up another. He could see so much now, so much was clear to him.
It was as if being with Vanessa had helped him tap into the deeper recesses of his creative subconscious, allowing him to tap into talent he'd never known he possessed.
Finally, he heard something behind him and remembered to take a breath. Vanessa stared at him, a bag of takeout forgotten in her hands.
"Where'd this come from?" she asked, and it was enough for him to know that he'd been right. He turned away from his canvas, relief washing through him as he knew in his gut that his muse wasn't going anywhere, that it was there to stay this time.
He almost said "you:' but he hated the way it sounded in his head, so he didn't answer her. He just said, "Let's eat:' and she nodded, understanding that there were no words for it beyond a too-simple "you:'
VANESSA HAD BEEN GLAD to head out on her own to pick up lunch. Sex was just sex. That's what she'd always believed. More than that, it was what she'd always known. But somewhere along the way, as Sam had turned her body inside out with his hands, with his mouth, with his cock, she'd lost hold of her certainty. Because sex had never been so good. So powerful. So all consuming. It had only taken ten seconds for her to figure out that Sam Marshall was not only the best lover she'd ever had but also the one man who had a chance of breaking through her "no love" rule.
Life had taught her that men didn't stick around once their desire was slaked. Her father had been the best teacher around. And her mother had been his victim. As soon as she'd turned eighteen, Vanessa had gotten the hell out of that house, with all its lies and betrayals. She'd lived on her terms at Berkeley. No lies. No cheating. Because there was no love to lie about. And no one to deceive. Just men that she slept with on a casual basis.
The intensity of being with Sam, and the way it had ricocheted out from her groin all the way up her chest to her heart, had been enough to make her consider leaving for sandwiches and not coming back. But she wasn't a coward. And, like she'd told him, she didn't run from a challenge. Plus, she wasn't leaving without the painting in the gallery window.
By the time she returned with a bottle of cool, crisp Chardonnay, chicken curry salad, artisan goat cheese, and freshly baked sourdough bread, she had convinced herself that modeling for Sam, that sleeping with Sam, was nothing more than a test of her will. One that she was certain she'd pass with flying colors. Besides, even if she did something stupid like trying to envision a future with Sam, the fact was that things between them would never work in a million years.
